


Me and I

by spikesgirl58



Series: ABBA/Foothills [87]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5283575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt is gone and Illya is beside himself.  Worse, he's stuck teaching a cooking class.  What's a master chef to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Me and I

Illya stood at the window and looked out into the night.  There were times like this when his soul craved the quiet that Jackson had to offer and he wondered just how he’d managed to survive in New York.  Of course, he’d been younger and to be surrounded and part of noise meant life and he pursued it.  Now the quiet was a welcomed relief from the day and he chased it as vigorously as he had all that was New York.

Still, tonight the quiet didn’t help.  He felt as if his soul had been ripped in two, although he’d never admit to anyone, not even Napoleon.  The bond Illya shared with Matt had been a constant in his life when he had very little else to rely upon.  That they’d not been able to make it as lovers didn’t take away from that.  Matt needed someone less broken than Illya was at the time.  It spoke volumes that they’d remain such close friends and colleagues.  And now this… He sighed and propped up his forehead against the arm he rested on the glass.  It was cold for November in the Foothills, but it wasn’t as cold as the ache in his heart.

A pair of warm arms slipped around his waist and a familiar body pressed against his.  “He’s only been gone for a few hours, Illya.”

“I know, but would you believe this is the first time since San Francisco that we’ve been apart?  What am I going to do now?”

“Well, if it was anyone other than you, I’d suggest counseling, but you being you, just suck it up.  He’s only gone a few weeks.  Matt will be back by December.”

“And Rocky.” 

“Matt will be missed, but Rocky, I am going to seriously miss him.”  Napoleon pulled Illya closer.  “Come back to bed.  You have a big day tomorrow and you need some sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“I can fix that.”  Napoleon’s erection prodded Illya’s lower back and he looked back over his shoulder.

“That’s some offer.  How can I be sure you can deliver?”

“Trust me on this.”  Napoleon’s fingers, feather light, traveled down Illya’s stomach and Illya leaned into Napoleon.

“Mm, that feels good.”  He tilted his head slightly as Napoleon nuzzled his neck, nipping and kissing.  It was easy to lose himself in Napoleon and know that he was safe.  He never felt entirely safe with Matt.  The man was too obliging, too willing to let Illya do whatever he wanted to do to him.  It was a time of experimentation and of little control.  It was better this way.

“Still thinking about Matt?”

“No,” Illya murmured, hating himself for lying.  Then Napoleon’s mouth was on his and it wasn’t a lie.  Every fiber, every molecule of Illya’s body was crying out for Napoleon’s touch, not Matt’s and when Napoleon entered him, it’s was Napoleon’s name that Illya choked out.  When he came, it was Napoleon’s hand coaxing the climax, so close to painful that Illya nearly cried.

“You’ll be sore tomorrow,” Napoleon murmured as Illya pressed back against Napoleon.  He’d been trying to withdraw.

“Whatever you say, Matt.”  The darkness hid Illya’s smile as Napoleon rumbled a warning and began again.

ABBABBAABBAABBA

Illya pushed open the kitchen door of Taste with more energy than he felt.  Even Napoleon’s surprisingly enthusiastic lovemaking hadn’t worked all that well and Illya spent much of the night tossing and turning.  What little sleep he did managed was shaken by him by an early morning call from Jesus asking him to open the kitchen. 

“Sorry to wake you, _amigo_ ,” Jesus murmured as he put on his apron.

“I just can’t believe you don’t have a key.”

“Never needed one.  Matt was always here.”

“This early?  I must not be working him hard enough.”

Illya left his baker and went to the office, unlocking the door and flipping on a light.  He’d learned the hard way to never just walk into this particular space in the dark.  For some reason, the landscape of the room changed daily, depending upon what had arrived during the course of the preceding business day, what needed to be reviewed, returned or dealt with in some way. 

This morning, there was a stack of boxes with a new app plate inside, some silverware that had proved to not hold up to the rigors of restaurant wear and a case of imported salts that Illya had yet to find time to experiment with.

He unlocked his desk and opened the center drawer.  A note caught his attention:

_I will miss you, Cara.  Rocky has my heart, but you have my soul._

Illya smiled.  Matt wrote English much better than he spoke it.  Of course, writing always seemed easier than speaking when dealing with a second or third language.  Illya lifted the note and stroked the paper.  Then he placed it into his personal folder in the big bottom drawer and return to looking for a spare key.

It took longer than he’d thought.  The keys had slid to the back of the junk-riddled drawer and then there was trying to figure out which key was the right one.  Finally he held up one that was a mate to his kitchen key.

Just then he heard a knock and looked up to see Jesus standing there, holding a cup of coffee and a plate.   “I thought you might be able to use these.”

“Jesus, you are just what the doctor ordered.”

The coffee was strong enough to melt a spoon, just the way Illya liked it, and the bear claw pastry, thick and gooey with almond paste.  Illya savored every delicious bite.

“You should open up your own shop, Jesus,” Illya said, for not the first time.  “I’d be your biggest customer.”

“ _Si, si_ , but who has the time?”

Illya chucked at that.   “Who does?”  And his day as owner and head chef of Taste began.

 

ABBAABBAABBA

 

He was carefully plating a tureen of venison _foie gras_ when the next bombshell hit.

“Chef?” It was one of his newer hired waiters, Velon something or other.  There was something about the man that didn’t sit quite right, but the customers responded to his good looks and expert serving skills.  He was hired as temporary seasonal help and he had settled into Taste’s routine with ease.  Everyone seemed to like him but there was something off about the man.

“Yes?”  Illya set three tiny sprigs of thyme on top and a small knotted ribbon of lemon peel.  It was gone the moment he released the last item.  He straightened and reached for the next ticket.

“One of our customers –“

“Patrons.” Illya corrected.  “Customers are what other restaurants have.  We have patrons.” 

A small spark of something flared in the waiter’s eyes, but it was gone practically before it was there and Illya dismissed his suspicion as a leftover from his UNCLE days.

“One of our patrons is asking is there is still room in Saturday’s class.”

“Saturday’s class?”  That got Illya full attention, something that didn’t happen often in Taste’s kitchen if you were anything other than a food item. He turned to his staff, “Someone talk to me.”

“The Saturday classes have been going on for nearly three months and you never noticed?”  Henry, the sous chef, dropped his tasting spoon into a container of water and bushed off his hands.  “Matt started them as an outreach to the community.  They are twice a month, Saturday afternoons from one to two or so.”

“And you knew nothing about this?”  Rand was pan searing a veal chop.  He shook his head, tested the chop and flipped it.  “Communication lines are failing.”

 “What’s the world coming to?”  Velon seemed to enjoy that Illya had been caught flatfooted and Illya fastened one of his well rehearsed glares at the man.  He was still too new to be part of the easy camaraderie of the kitchen.  The waiter fell silent.

“Please inform our patron that I will be right out to discuss it with her.”   Velon left without another word.

Another waiter entered. “Chef, a patron on Twelve is wondering about the class on Saturday and we have someone on Eight who wants ketchup, real ketchup, not the crap, quote and unquote we serve.”

ABBAABBAABBA

Illya dragged himself into the house he shared with his partner and shut the door behind him.

Napoleon looked up from the couch where he was relaxing with a snifter of Grand Marier and listening to a bit of Dave Brubeck jazz.  Immediately he was on his feet and moving, even as Illya was just standing and relishing the quiet soothing strains of _Take Five_. 

Illya undid his chef’s coat, let it drop and eased his aching feet from his clogs.  The cool hard stone floor in the entry hall was balm to his arches.  He relished it for a moment and then everything else began to complain about being overlooked as Illya lurched towards the couch.

The Friday night crowd at Taste was more than a challenge when he had Matt at his side and Rocky running the dining room, but tonight had been nearly too much.

Napoleon had returned with a tray of food and wine glasses.  It had started as a joke that Illya never ate anything.  After a night of tasting and re-tasting, Illya couldn’t face his own cooking.  Napoleon has started providing a tray of cheese and raw vegetables, sometimes a light soup.  Napoleon had been taking lessons from Matt as of late and enjoyed showing off his skill to his lover.  Illya was always careful to be an attentive and enthusiastic recipient.  It certainly beat the cereal he used to eat after work.

“What do we have tonight?” he asked as he sank happily down onto the couch and lifted his feet to the coffee table. 

“A turkey broth with Parisian vegetables.”  Napoleon watched anxiously as Illya took a sip and then another.

“Very nice.  You seasoned it with sage and thyme?”

“Yes.”

Illya tried the vegetables, small spheres of carrot, celery and potatoes.  “The vegetables are perfectly done, still a bit of tooth appeal, but fully cooked.  You want a job in my kitchen?  I could use the extra help.”

Napoleon laughed and leaned forward for his reward, a kiss.  “Not in a million years.”  He brushed the hair from Illya’s forehead.  “You look especially tired tonight.”

“It was hard without Matt.  I’d forgotten just how much he does in the course of the night.”

“How much you both do.”

Illya nodded.  “He just made things easier for me and all the waiters acted as if they’d never served before.  Everything threw them for a loop and pulled me away from what I needed to do.  It was hard. How was life at Vinea today?”

“Busy.  Everyone seems to be shopping early for Thanksgiving this year.  That reminds me, what wine do you want for tomorrow?”

“For which entrée?”  Illya’s mind went straight to his menu. “I’d like something light for the quail, but the venison can take something hardy.”    

“For the class, I mean, not dinner service.”

“Does everyone in the world know about this except me?”

“Didn’t Matt say something to you about it?”

“He may have, but I don’t really remember.”  Illya finished the soup and returned the empty dish to the tray before picking up a glass of wine.

“And they say we are married.” 

“We are, at least in our eyes, if not the law.”  Illya sipped the wine, a chilled Grenache.  He nodded.  “This is a perfect accompaniment for the soup.”

“You still didn’t answer the question.”

“What question?”

“Illya, what was your special on the Mother’s Day menu?”

Illya frowned as he thought.  “It was Guinea hen with a bourbon sweet glaze and a trilogy of spring vegetables.”

“You can remember a Special from May but you can’t remember a question I asked you less than a minute earlier.”

“Like you said, we’re married.  Besides, it’s food.  I don’t forget food.”  Illya moved on to the cheese.

“What wine do you want for tomorrow’s class?”

“There is wine served?”

Napoleon snickered at that.  “Why do you think they are so popular?”

“Matt.  I mean he is well loved and respected here and I thought it was because people were interesting in becoming better cooks.”

“Think again. What is your topic?”

“Well, Thanksgiving is in two weeks, I suppose ham.”

Napoleon sipped his wine and shook his head slowly.  “ _Amante_ , they are going to eat you for breakfast.”

“I’m joking.  Turkey and its accompaniments.  Maybe I can show them a new spin on an old favorite and if not, then you can come along and serve wine as they roast me.”

“So what goes good with Russian?” Then Illya kissed him and Napoleon made a happy noise deep in his throat.  “Hmm, a Napoleon, of course.”

 

ABBAABBAABBA

Illya stood before the group of men and women and waited for the chattering to die down.  The scheduled attendance was supposed to be twenty, but there was easily double that.  Tables and chairs had been pushed aside to make room.  At least his staff seemed to have that part down pat as they hurried to make room for everyone.

Illya had faced THRUSH interrogators with more ease than he did these people.  Many of them were strangers to him and, from the way they talked, to the restaurant as well.  Maybe they’d get a few more patrons out of this.  He thought glumly of the call he made to Matt the day before.  He waited for Matt to answer, smiling when he heard the familiar voice ask.  “ _Si?”_

“Matthew.”

“Already you are panicked, _Cara?_ I haven’t been gone a week.”

That was enough to calm Illya’s anxiety and make him take a deep breath.  “Why didn’t you tell me about the Saturday classes?”

“But I did.  You were whipping cream into some parsnips and I asked if we could offer a series of classes for our patrons.  You were quite enthusiastic at the time.  Or perhaps that was the rum talking.”

Illya frowned as he tried to remember that conversation.  He remembered the dish, of course, and of them talking about something.

“I swear these are news to me.”

“They are very popular and it seems to be pulling more people in from the community who were hesitant to dine with us.  Now the restaurant is a familiar place.  They know me and some of our waiters, so they feel comfortable, not threatened.”

“That makes sense, but for you, not me.  What am I supposed to say to them?” 

“ _Cara,_ do you remember when you started teaching sauces at the Academy?”

“That’s completely different.  Those people were students.”

“As are these.  They want to learn.  Teach them,” Matt said, but added softly.  “I miss you, _Cara._ ”

“Me, too.  Is Rocky doing well?”

“He has my grandmother eating out of his hand and my mama says that if anything should happen between us, they will keep him and kick me out.”

Illya laughed at that and somehow that warmed Illya’s heart. 

He looked at the women and the few men as Napoleon weaved in and out of the tables, pouring a bit of wine here and there.  Napoleon had been careful to pick a wine that they had a substantial amount of on hand.  Illya appreciated and admired the ease in which Napoleon moved and talked.  Unlike Illya, Napoleon had an innate gift for gab.  Illya often found himself tongue-tied when facing a group of people.  Of course he hid it and no one was the wiser, but that didn’t mean he liked it.  The first time he’d had to address a group of his culinary peers, he spent the hour before in the restroom, vainly trying to come up with a reason to never leave it.

“Welcome to Taste.  Many of you are strangers, so let me introduce myself,” Napoleon said, nearly making Illya jump out of his skin.  “My name is Napoleon Solo, and among other things, I am one of the co-owners of Taste.  Up to this point, most of you have met Matt, but today you are in for a treat.  He is on vacation and has travelled back to Italy to spend some time with his family.  It’s time to bring out the big guns, so let me introduce Illya Kuryakin, the _tour de force_ of Taste.”

Illy nodded his thanks to Napoleon and paused as all the attention became focused upon him.  He cleared his throat and took a deep breath.

“As some of you might deduce by my name, I am Russian and in Russia, we have many holidays, but Thanksgiving is not one of them.  When I first came to this country, I was befriended early on by Napoleon and it was he who introduced me to many of your customs and ways.  It was his determination that I would not spend Thanksgiving by myself and dragged me to his family’s home back in Vermont.  They were very kind to welcome me and to not make me feel any more confused than I always was.  What I discovered was that unlike many of your other holidays, Thanksgiving is all about the food.  Sure there is football and a parade, but its primary focus is the food and the star is a turkey.” 

The women laughed politely and Illya shot a worried look at Napoleon, who made a ‘get on with it’ motion with his hands. 

“The first time I made a turkey at culinary school, I was scraping dressing off the inside of the oven for a week.  Everyone in my class thought it was very funny, but unlike them, I’d never cooked a turkey before and had no idea it would explode if not handled properly.”

“You over-stuffed it,” the mayor’s wife said, laughing and clapping her hands.  “I did that when I was a newlywed.  My mother-in-law was not impressed.”

“Nor were my instructors.”  Illya could grin at the memory, but he remembered how frustrated and humiliated he felt.  Then a quiet Italian with a crazy red afro knelt down beside him and helped him clean the oven, along with offering some advice of his own.  It had been a turning point for Illya and the start of a powerful friendship.  “Since then I have cooked many turkeys and thought that perhaps I would share a few pointers that I have learned along the way.”  The more he talked, especially about food, the better and more confident he felt.  Illya snapped his fingers and two groups of waiters surged forward.  For some reason, Illya was glad when he didn’t see Velon in the lineup.

“Here we have two turkeys.  They were both cooked the same way, but there was one big difference in their preparation.  Go ahead and sample them and tell me what you think, but be kind.  As Matt would say, My ego, she is fragile.”

The group sampled and talked amongst themselves as Napoleon filled empty glasses of wine and another waiter filled water glasses.

“These are both much better than mine, but this one seems, well, moister.  Was it cooked with a dressing in it?”

“No, and I’m not sure if it was my explosive introduction to turkey or the fact that it’s very hard to get both a turkey and the stuffing done to the proper temperature, but I never cook stuffing in the bird.”

“The seasonings?”

“Both the same.” Illya slapped Napoleon’s hand. 

“What?”

“If you don’t stop, you will become the turkey.”  Illya looked back at the ladies.  “He’s addicted to turkey.”

“My name is Napoleon Solo and I can’t get enough turkey.”  He snagged another piece and moved away quickly before Illya could catch him.

After the laughter died down, Illya asked again.  “Any thoughts?”

“You’re magical?” This was from the head of the visitor bureau.

“In his dreams,” Napoleon said, grinning.  He leaned closely and stage whispered.  “He brined it.”  He nodded and the woman repeated.

“You brined it?”

“On the nose.  Give that woman a drumstick.  I’m passing around a recipe for brining.  It’s fairly straight forward and it can be used for any cut of meat, but it works particularly well on poultry.  Brining pulls moisture out of the meat and then draws it back in.  Since your brine is flavored, that is pulled into the meat as well.”

“A cup of salt?  Wouldn’t that make it salty?”

“You would think so, but it doesn’t.  It’s all about chemistry, which is important, but not at the moment.  Trust me when I say, if you brine your turkey this year, you won’t be disappointed.”

“What about leftovers?”

“If you have any.”  Illya moved the platter away from Napoleon again.  “You will be amazed at how moist the bird stays.  And you can freeze it up to six months, or so I’m told, and it will still be as flavorful.”

“Where did you get this recipe?”

“A red-haired Italian gave it to me and after making it once, I’ve never strayed.  I think you will agree.  So, we know how to make the brine, what to do with the cavity, since we won’t be putting anything explosive in it?”

By the time the class was over, Illya was almost sorry.  He lingered behind, chatting with a few of the women and answering their questions.  The last one wandered out into the cold and Illya was surprised to find a glass of wine in his hand.  He sipped the chilled sauvignon blanc and then picked up a piece of turkey that he’d made the day prior for the class.  He chewed and sipped, then offered a bite to Napoleon. 

“I think this might be a good wine to pair with the turkey.”  Because of the number of reservations at the restaurant, they would be serving a pre-set menu, which would feature all the standard Thanksgiving food, but kicked up a few notches by Illya and Matt.   

“You’re right, but how will it fare with the rest?”  Napoleon sat down at an empty table and watched as the waiters started clearing and setting the restaurant to rights.  In four short hours, they would be open for business. 

“Guess we’ll have to find out.”

“Was that as bad as you thought?”

“No… actually it wasn’t.  Are there any other surprises I should know about before Matt returns?”

“I have a wine-tasting class week after next and I’m going to center it around the holiday meal.  I wouldn’t mind having some little appropriate tidbits to offer up.”

“I can do that.  If I don’t have our menu in place by then, I might as well take down my shingle.”

“I wouldn’t mind taking down something else,” Napoleon murmured and Illya smirked.

“Keep that thought in mind and catch me in another…”  He consulted his watch.  “… Twelve hours.”

“I’ll try to stay awake.”

ABBAABBAABBA

Illya watched the plane taxi up to the gate and turned to look at Napoleon, a wide smile on his face.  It felt like a thousand years since they’d seen Matt and Rocky off. 

Slowly, too slowly, the crew got the airway adjusted and the passengers appeared, first a few, then many more.  Eagerly, Illya scanned the crowd, his anxiety started to grow as the crowd thinned. 

Then abrupt a mop of red hair appeared and Illya laughed.  Matt looked around and spotted him.  They met in a hard embrace.

“I think we need to get them a room,” Rocky muttered as he hugged Napoleon.

“Or a hose.” Napoleon pried the two men apart.  “You two are going to be arrested for lewd and lascivious conduct in an airline terminal.

“Fine by me.”  Illya hugged Rocky in turn.  “How was your flight?”

Instantly Matt and Rocky were chattering like magpies and Napoleon was laughing at their comments.  And Illya, he was beaming.  There was nothing quite like having his family home for the holidays.


End file.
